


This Matter Of Ours

by drifting_chronotope



Category: Preacher (TV)
Genre: Drabble, Feels, Friendship/Love, Introspection, M/M, Sharing a Bed, angels being human
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-21
Updated: 2017-09-21
Packaged: 2019-01-01 03:50:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12148002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drifting_chronotope/pseuds/drifting_chronotope
Summary: Fiore ponders about his feelings one night in yet another cheap hotel room he and DeBlanc share.





	This Matter Of Ours

**Author's Note:**

> (Just let me have this, okay?)

The first night they stay in separate beds.

It's what's expected. There are two beds. There are two of them. It's a matter of symmetry, Fiore thinks, though he strangely dislikes the thought as soon as he has it. It shouldn't matter, anyways. A bed is a bed is a bed, really. And, besides, it is just a bit of posing. Just a bit of mortal posture and figuring things out between the two of them along this damned journey. Like the clothes and the towels and the parade of different hats. The beds, the sleeping--it is blending in. It's being mortal. Just pretending. Just doing what's expected.

The point is that it shouldn't matter which bed they sleep in. It shouldn't matter. Except, Fiore thinks, for some reason it does.

"It's chilly, is all," is what DeBlanc says to him one evening. He's got a coarse, taupe-coloured blanket bunched about his frame and a frown on his face. He points to an ancient radiator. "Messed about with that bother there. Didn't do any good."

Fiore studies the radiator set in beneath the room's sole window. Age and environment have changed it's once-cream color into a rusted yellow-brown and dense clusters of brittle paint chips litter the floor around it. The heavy curtains dangling above the vent remain dull and motionless. He frowns himself as he thinks. He can't find a reason to argue DeBlanc's point. And it is chilly, now that DeBlanc points it out.

"Sleep with me," Fiore finally decides is the appropriate response. He assures DeBlanc, "I'm never too cold," though he's not sure if that is indeed the case.

"That so?" DeBlanc eyes Fiore's bed and then Fiore. His frown transforms into one of the small, bemused smiles that he often gives Fiore when one of them is being foolish. "Fair enough."

It's cramped slightly, two grown bodies on a bed meant for one, but not really. They shift until they find a comfortable balance. Like two voices finding harmony, is how Fiore sees it. And, besides, there's no harm in being so close if DeBlanc is complaining of cold.

"Alright?" Fiore asks into the darkness of the room. He feels DeBlanc nod and a part of him relaxes with relief. He'd been worried, a little, when he'd offered. He shouldn't be worried. There is no reason. Just as there is no reason to feel so pleased.

"Yeah, 's nice," DeBlanc says, words puffing against Fiore's shoulder, muffled by the cotton undershirt.

Fiore can't find a reason to argue that point either. It does feel nice. It feels nice to have DeBlanc's stout body pressed against him, DeBlanc's arm slung over his stomach, to have the tickle of an exhale on his neck. He feels DeBlanc's arm shift, curling tighter around him, pulling them closer together. He feels DeBlanc's mouth and nose brush against his clavicle, short beard bristling over his skin. It feels strange... but nice. It is surprisingly nice to feel the rise and fall of DeBlanc's chest and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

"Nice," Fiore murmurs, much too late for it to be ignored.

"What's that?" DeBlanc whispers. He shifts a little as he asks his question to Fiore, and Fiore knows he is looking at him, picking his face out from the silver-toned darkness around them.

"Nuffin'," Fiore mutters.

"Nuffin'," DeBlanc echoes, pitching his low voice in playful mimicry of Fiore's accent. "Go on."

Fiore rolls his eyes, his smile hidden in the dark. "Thinking."

"Oh?"

"That's it," Fiore says, mostly just to say something. What is he supposed to say? Feelings, sensations--those are mortal things. Fleeting and feckless. Like customs and commercials and crisps. He hesitates a good moment, then says, "It's nice, right? Here. Like this."

"Hah." DeBlanc shifts again, resettling against Fiore, head again on his shoulder, arm again stretched over his stomach. "Could do without some of the petty inconveniences, personally."

Fiore smiles again, though he doesn't know why. "Right."

"Not all bad though."

Not all bad, Fiore thinks. DeBlanc's breath is warm. DeBlanc's voice is soft. The hand curled against Fiore's side rocks slightly, knuckles gently brushing along his ribs.


End file.
